Last October I went to my doctor's office to have accumulated ear wax removed. This, I was told, could now be done by no one but the doctor himself. (A lovely nurse practitioner used to do the procedure.) Much to my surprise, the doctor wheeled in an electrical apparatus, removed a wand-like piece from it and stuck the end in my ear. The noise was, well, deafening – literally.
Having cleaned both ears, the M.D. began talking to me. His voice sounded like Alvin the Chipmunk and I could hardly understand what he was saying.
I exclaimed, "That made my hearing worse!"
"You need to see an audiologist," he shouted and walked out of the room.
There began the saga of wondering what people were saying, asking them to repeat, and still often not understanding. I learned that folks have very little patience with hearing-impaired people. I have consulted two otolaryngologists and three audiologists. I have tried two different brands of hearing aids, neither of which helped my hearing except to make a flushing toilet sound like Niagara Falls.
Attention boomers: a pair of hearing aids costs at least $4,500 and health insurance does not cover them so you should start saving now. (All those loud concerts you heard are going to cost you again.)
Sometimes I wonder if I've simply grown tired of talking and hearing people talk, tired of interpreting their words. I hear music just fine. Also, I've grown to like the quiet life, a life without the distraction of conversation and random noises. A quiet environment provides opportunity for reflection without interruption. It is peaceful, albeit solitary.
Misti the audiologist is ordering yet another brand of hearing aids for me to try. To be truthful, I don't much care whether they work or not. I have thoughts to think, ideas to incubate and books to read, all of which require a quiet life.
I must admit, though, that I hope my inept, rude doctor goes stone deaf.
Having cleaned both ears, the M.D. began talking to me. His voice sounded like Alvin the Chipmunk and I could hardly understand what he was saying.
I exclaimed, "That made my hearing worse!"
"You need to see an audiologist," he shouted and walked out of the room.
There began the saga of wondering what people were saying, asking them to repeat, and still often not understanding. I learned that folks have very little patience with hearing-impaired people. I have consulted two otolaryngologists and three audiologists. I have tried two different brands of hearing aids, neither of which helped my hearing except to make a flushing toilet sound like Niagara Falls.
Attention boomers: a pair of hearing aids costs at least $4,500 and health insurance does not cover them so you should start saving now. (All those loud concerts you heard are going to cost you again.)
Sometimes I wonder if I've simply grown tired of talking and hearing people talk, tired of interpreting their words. I hear music just fine. Also, I've grown to like the quiet life, a life without the distraction of conversation and random noises. A quiet environment provides opportunity for reflection without interruption. It is peaceful, albeit solitary.
Misti the audiologist is ordering yet another brand of hearing aids for me to try. To be truthful, I don't much care whether they work or not. I have thoughts to think, ideas to incubate and books to read, all of which require a quiet life.
I must admit, though, that I hope my inept, rude doctor goes stone deaf.
2 comments:
You may not miss talking and trying to hear, but I miss our frequent phone conversations! For my selfish sake, please keep trying!
Love you!
Nanjo
Not to worry, I hear just fine on the phone without aids.
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